a poem

Santa Clause



There is a man who is on the phone

In another timezone listening to her go on

About the way of friction and boxcars,

The way of scenic trails and rolling hills,

The way of up to the moon and beyond.

There is a woman who is being swooned

From this day in age to Timbuktu

Cruising across the Amazon through the river

To where her hopes belong.

The two dance in the waves of grass,

The trees and brooks, the crannies and nooks,

The way too many fall in love,

And get sent home from above,

With the radio on to an ideal selection,

To the rolling stock poll with a Rudolph nose.




by Ben Bussewitz

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